


Late Birds and Mealy Worms

by cyprith



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:10:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyprith/pseuds/cyprith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mistress' wings are a terrible mess after so many years away. Diaval does his very best not to think about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Birds and Mealy Worms

**Author's Note:**

> vivacioustavernwench prompted: way hey, up she rises
> 
> Silly, sweet little thing, set after the movie.

 

**Late Birds and Mealy Worms**

—

Oh, they’re a right mess, his mistress’ wings are. And they’re _gorgeous_ —that’s the worst of it—tall as giants, bright and deep as a summer night. Diaval’s fingers itch just looking at her.

And true, that’s always been _something_ of a problem. Certainly around the springier months, although Maleficent often relented to his worldly charms—her sighs and rolled eyes aside—and let him sort out her hair into something soft and pretty. Maybe weave a few baubles in. Little things, you know. Just a bit of shine. Nothing you wouldn’t do for family.

But this. _This_.

Sitting on a low branch, Diaval shoves his hands under his gangly human legs and tries very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all. It’s a difficult task, considering his clever self. He tries though, really gives it a go, whistling a drunken sailor tune beneath his breath as he watches Aurora dance with her prince through a muddy moor stream.

He’s trying to teach her how, Diaval thinks. Something about steps and music and doing the both together? But ballrooms in the human world tend not to have rocks and puddles and sprites, and so the two of them are making a terribly muddy go of it. At least they’re both of them laughing, messy handprints streaking their fine clothes, all down their backs so that it almost looks like…

His whistle falters. Diaval squeezes his eyes shut.

Nothing at all. Never mind. _Handprints_. Just the muddy memories of human bits.

He’s certainly not thinking about a pair of wings bigger than the sky, all sore and out of place, needing a tender beak—or a pair of so, _so_ careful human hands—to set them straight again. No! None of that, not at all. It’s not nearly nesting season and even if it _were_ —which it _isn’t_ , it’s far too late by _half_ —he couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly.

Except that, nearby, seated on a rock below the tree and combing out her wings, he hears Maleficent laugh. It’s just a little thing, her laugh. Barely more than a startled breeze. But it warms him through to hear it and so he can’t resist sneaking a little peak.

Terrible mistake.

He finds his mistress smiling, her eyes on him. And Diaval doesn’t understand any of this human business—doesn’t know why his sodding stomach has stopped digesting his butterflies, and certainly doesn’t know why all the blood in his body has suddenly taken up residence in his face—but she’s smiling.

Maleficent’s smiling.

And he’s never seen her smile quite like _that_.

Diaval swallows. Beneath his legs, his hands are terribly sweaty.

“You look a right mess,” he blurts. “And you’ve missed a bit in the back.”

Terrible! Terrible and _stupid_ —where’s his _charm_ gone when he needs it?—but Maleficent laughs again. She _laughs._ And Diaval can count on his human fingers the number of times he’s heard her laugh in their long acquaintance, but now she’s gone and done it twice in as many minutes. Primarily, it would seem, because of _him_.

At least she’s not offended. Or she doesn’t _seem_ offended, anyway. There’s no ball of mealy-worm magic sitting in her palm, just a softness in her eyes and a sort of welcome in the curl of her smile.

“I find I’m sorely out of practice,” she says, low and cozy like a winter nest, voice pitched just for him. 

And it’s not an invitation—couldn’t possibly be—but he’s off his branch in a flash just the same.

“I can—That is—would you let me…” he tries, his traitorous hands flapping at his sides.

Smiling, Maleficent catches the hand closest to her and guides him to a seat at her hip. She stretches out her wings—so many gorgeous feathers, farther than his human arms can reach—and Diaval cannot breathe. He cannot _move._ They’re too much of everything he’s ever wished for her.

“I need you, Diaval,” she says, so quietly, mischief and something warmer in her eyes. “Can’t do this without you, Diaval.”

Heart like a thunderbird in his chest, Diaval meets her eyes. He smiles. Smiles, and cannot stop.  

“Yes, well,” he says. “Better late than never, I suppose.”


End file.
